Ten Minutes to Toorak
by MissTempleton
Summary: Inspector Robinson is challenged by a ludicrously productive murderer; while Miss Fisher is challenged by some unusual competition. As ever, they must work together to win the day.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"That St Jude is a busy chap," remarked the Honourable Phryne Fisher, carefully turning the page of the newspaper spread out on the counterpane without overbalancing the morning's first coffee balanced in her right hand.

"I beg your pardon, Miss?" Her factotum, the nominatively-determined Mr Butler, paused on the threshold as he prepared to exit with the detritus of the previous evening's entertainment. As Detective Chief Inspector Robinson was almost as big a fan of single malt Scotch Whisky as he was of his wife – who was prepared to answer to the name Mrs Robinson when she wasn't dogging his footsteps in pursuit of the less godly population of the great city of Melbourne – there was only half a bottle left to carry downstairs, along with two glasses (used, one bearing traces of lipstick) and a barely-touched jug of water. The Inspector had left the house with an ache in his head rather earlier that morning, but the smile on his face was ineradicable, suggesting that the price had been worth paying.

(He did, it must be admitted, pay only the briefest of visits to the kitchen, where Miss Elizabeth Robinson was deriving great entertainment from depriving her baby brother Nathaniel of his morning egg. Nate's objections were a lot more vocal than usual – teething will try the patience of even the most equable soul – and the overall noise level made Jack's teeth hurt, too. A swift kiss to each offspring, a nod to their nurse and a sip of coffee was all that the nursery party experienced of Daddy on that particular wet Thursday.)

"St Jude," Phryne repeated, poring over the small ads. "He's getting grateful thanks from dozens of people."

"Ah, yes," Mr Butler nodded sagely. "The patron saint of Lost Causes."

"Not as lost as all that, by the evidence of the _Argus_ Classifieds," said Phryne, raising an eyebrow. "What with all the thanks, and all the supplications, I'd say this particular Saint's discovery rate's extremely healthy. Although …" she furrowed her brow as she scanned the column again, "it seems odd for a Catholic saint to be supplying a Post Office Box number."

Mr Butler inclined his head in agreement. "Very odd indeed, Miss, I would agree. Perhaps one to ask Mrs Collins?"

Phryne placed the cup carefully on her side table before collapsing back on to her pillows. "I shall do so, Mr B, but not before I've had a bath, a jolly good breakfast, and," she nuzzled the silk of the pillow affectionately, "another forty winks. Send Lin Soo up in half an hour, would you?"

He bowed punctiliously from the waist, and shut the door very, very gently. Phryne allowed the patter of raindrops on the window to lull her into a restorative doze, and wondered what Dot Collins was doing for lunch.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Having been allowed to coast fairly mercifully through the first couple of hours of the day, signing off documents that he'd already approved in draft, the Inspector's headache was becoming a distant memory when its departure was rudely interrupted by a rap on his office door. Bidden enter, Sergeant Collins had the good sense to speak quietly and apologise.

"Sorry, sir, but you're going to want to come to this one. Dead body on a train just outside Toorak station."

Jack groaned inwardly, but trusted his sergeant's judgement, pushing back his chair and reaching for his hat and coat.

"As you're inviting me to join the festivities, Collins, I'm guessing this isn't a natural death?"

Hugh Collins shook his head sympathetically. "Stabbing, sir."

A last mouthful of rapidly-cooling tea, and the Inspector was on his way, enquiring as to the whereabouts of Detective Constable Lennox and the Coroner.

"Dr Mac's on her way to the scene with a team, sir. Lennox was on late shift last night and due in …" Collins checked the clock, "in ten minutes."

"Leave word for him to join us at the locus, and bring Chalky for now," ordered Jack, and while Hugh paused to relay the instruction, strode out to the car. That the personnel involved in the journey meant the Inspector could appropriate the back seat for himself was no more than fortuitous coincidence, and he closed his eyes to think better as they travelled out to Toorak.

When they reached Beatty Avenue, Collins slowed, and started to scan the railway tracks to their right; sure enough, there was the locomotive waiting impatiently. As they pulled up, it blew off a head of steam, which Jack fondly hoped represented the tempers of the passengers being dissipated before he boarded the train.

It turned out that it hadn't.

There were, he was informed, seventeen passengers on the 10.38 from Flinders Street to Pakenham. The only one who didn't mind the fact that they'd been sitting for nearly half an hour between stations was the gentleman in first class who was dead.

Jack had this information passed to him by the fireman because, he was roundly informed, it was more than the driver's job was worth to vacate his post just because the conductor was coming over all peculiar in the shrubbery beside the track. Yes, it had been Ron who'd found the body, but what of it? It was his job to look after passengers, it wasn't like he had to shovel coal all day in these temperatures.

Jack closed his coat a little more firmly against the wind and asked if the passengers had been kept on board.

He was reassured that the passengers were all still on board, sir, because the employees of the Railways weren't a bunch of bloody fools and in any case, it was a six foot drop from the train to the bank so were the ladies supposed to bloody fly?

Ladies, asked Jack?

Most of second class was, it transpired, occupied by ladies of the Melbourne Naturalists Society. They had hoped to be in time for an informative lunchtime lecture in Dandenong, and were being less than understanding about forces of nature – or of the police variety – getting in their way.

Even as the fireman finished speaking, a second car raced up and disgorged Detective Constable Lennox, who sprinted across to join them. Jack reflected that either he'd been early for work (of which the Inspector approved) or, left to himself, Lennox imitated Miss Fisher's driving style (of which he wasn't supposed to approve).

"Right, lads, first things first – Lennox, you start at the front of the train, Collins, the guard's van. I want the names of everyone on the train, passengers and crew. I'm going to take a look at the body. White, with me."

The two senior men saluted and departed on their respective tasks. Jack followed Lennox to the front of the train, Constable White trailing at his heels, to where the sole occupant of first class was taking no further interest in events. Lennox dug out his notebook and returned to the second class carriage, promising to circle back to the driver as soon as the passenger list was completed.

Jack stepped across to peruse the fleshly remains of the victim, but had barely had the chance to note the bloodstains on his shirt when the door to the compartment was drawn open again by his Detective Constable.

Lennox was a little pale.

"Sir? The party of ladies?"

"Yes, Lennox, what of them? I hope we'll be able to help them to return to Toorak shortly, you can tell them that if they're impatient."

"It … may be too late for that, sir."

Jack shot him an impatient glance.

"I'm sure you don't mean they've all turned around started murdering each other, Constable."

If Lennox had had a whimper in his repertoire, he would have deployed it. Instead, he looked at his feet, shuffled, blushed and said "No, sir, it's just that they're not Naturalists. The fireman made a mistake."

Jack closed his eyes and begged for deliverance. No party of helpful angels, or even a single lady detective having magically appeared, he could only grate out his reply. "If they're botanists, tell them we'll let them name the next state flower in return for their forbearance."

"Sir – they're naturists. And they've decided that they had a plan for the day, and they've started already."

Jack's eyes were now wide open, his jaw hanging slightly and his vocal chords temporarily out of action.

"Oh, and they're not all ladies, sir," added Lennox hastily. "There's a gentleman as well."

"Just … the one gentleman?" Jack wasn't sure why this was an important fact, but he was clinging to reality by his fingernails.

"Yes sir."

"Sir!" This from Collins, who'd sprinted along the train corridor to join them. "Sir, you need to come to the baggage car."

"Right away, Sergeant," responded Jack, taking a few paces down the corridor. If there'd been a hint of relief to his voice, only his nearest and dearest would have spotted it. "What have you got?"

"Another body, sir."

Jack stopped in his tracks. As so often, in a time of extreme crisis, his mind cleared beautifully.

"Collins, Lennox, to me." His subordinates obediently clustered round.

"Lennox, you and I are going to the baggage car. Collins, I need you to relieve Constable White in his watch on the body in First Class, so that he can go to the telephone at Toorak station. He can take one of the cars, and has to request all available men from City South. Then he has to locate Miss Fisher."

He looked at the both sternly. "I will deal with as many corpses as the criminals in the State of Victoria make the mistake of providing, but when people start taking their clothes off, I need to call in the only person I know who can persuade them to stop, before I have to take men off my investigation."

Collins and Lennox considered grinning, and then remembered that they were standing in front of the only Detective Chief Inspector in the State of Victoria whose wife had performed a fan dance in the course of duty; and saluted instead.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

It felt as though he'd barely had the chance to trace the length of the train (eyes carefully averted from certain second class compartments) and take stock of the corpse clumsily bundled behind a small heap of luggage, when a familiar engine was heard to roar. He gave no outward sign of relief when he walked to the open door of the baggage car, but his heart had given a lift.

"HELLO, JACK!" was the glad greeting, as Miss Fisher unceremoniously dumped the car at the side of the road and scampered across the grass towards him. "Quite like old times in Ballarat, isn't it? Hope you don't mind, I brought Dorothy," she gestured towards the younger woman picking her way carefully between the muddy puddles left by the rain. "We were supposed to be having lunch and discussing beatification and the postal service, so we got Mr B to put it in a basket instead. Lunch, that is. We're letting the other thing wait."

Mrs Collins looked up, gave a little wave and cast her eyes along the rest of the train. Sergeant Collins had also heard the arrival of the Hispano-Suiza, and stuck his head out of the first-class compartment where he was making sure that the corpse didn't try any funny business. He gave her a wave so enthusiastic that it almost removed his helmet; she stopped altogether, clasped her hands before her, and beamed broadly.

Jack and Phryne shared an understanding glance, and left the younger couple to gaze lovingly at one another. Kneeling down, the Inspector extended a firm hand, and his Dearly Beloved was hauled unceremoniously onto the train.

"Jack, this is the baggage car," she said, momentarily mystified.

"Don't worry, you'll fit right in," he muttered wickedly. She snorted, but caught her breath when she saw the body.

"_Jack!_" she exclaimed, hurrying over. "Who's that?"

"Don't touch," he cautioned. "Mac's not here yet."

"Well, she won't struggle to decide cause of death," remarked Miss Fisher dryly. "I don't think he cut himself shaving his abdomen."

He had to agree. "And he died right here, judging by the bloodstains. What's almost incomprehensible is that there's another body, right at the far end of the train."

Miss Fisher's eyes went to saucers as they met his. "TWO murders on one train? Jack, you need to search everyone!"

He coughed. "Actually, for two of the compartments of second class, it's not the search that's the problem. And that's why I called you in."

"Oh?" she was intrigued. "Which of my _special skills_ is it you require now, Inspector?" As she accompanied her honeyed question with a thoroughly improper caress of his lapel, he was forced to capture her hand and scowl meaningfully in the direction of Lennox, who was trying to pretend that he wasn't watching and loving every minute. Phryne followed his glance, and grinned.

"Oh, hello, Robin, I didn't see you there. How are you?"

He grinned bashfully, and confirmed that he was fine, thank you, Mrs, er, Miss, er …

"Oh, come on Robin, we've been over this a thousand times. Miss Fisher when you feel you must, and apart from that, it's Phryne, just as I am to Jane these days." She winked, and the younger man once again found himself wondering how on earth the Inspector could be married to this utterly terrifying lady; and when he was going to find himself physically injured for having the temerity to be walking out with their daughter.

Jack, meantime, used the hand he'd captured to drag Miss Fisher into the third class carriage. In a low voice, he explained the way in which the occupants of Second Class were currently entertaining themselves. Miss Fisher shrieked slightly, and her shoulders shook. Attempting a stern gaze, she chastised him roundly.

"Oh, come on, Jack, it's just a little bare flesh. Where's the problem? At least you won't have to work too hard to find a murder weapon." The helpless giggle that accompanied the end of her sentence rather spoiled the effect.

"Miss Fisher, I will not have a single one of those people searched by my people until they are fully clothed." He tried to pretend that didn't sound as ridiculous as it did, and struggled on. "Your task is to persuade them of that, to help the police track down a vicious murderer."

Thus reminded of the fact that two people had lost their lives, she shrugged and gave in.

Almost.

"All right, then." His shoulders sank in relief, until he heard her next line. "What's in it for me?"

His regard now was incredulous, so she incredulous-ed him right back. "Fair's fair, Jack. If I don't do this, you won't have an investigation. At the very least, you have to agree to let me in on it!"

He narrowed his eyes, and heaved a sigh. "Who am I fooling? We both know you'd be elbowing your way past me soon enough in any case."

Her victorious grin was reward enough, and she spun on her heel to march away in search of nudist nuisances. He watched her go, appreciatively; then, deducing correctly that the sound of more car engines was heralding the arrival of the Coroner, returned to the carnage of the baggage car.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"I realise my time's valuable, Inspector, but I wasn't expecting you to start piling up multiple cases at a single location just to help my productivity reports," grumbled Dr Elizabeth Macmillan, official Coroner to the City of Melbourne.

Correctly divining that she wasn't serious, Jack kept quiet and let her finish the examination of the body in the First Class carriage.

Straightening up, she rolled her sleeves back down in a businesslike fashion. "I'll be able to confirm more precisely when I've done a full examination but for now I'd say, same weapon as the victim in the baggage car, and around the same time. Same entry point, same style." She gave him a direct glance. "If these two murders weren't by the same person, I would consider eating my favourite trilby, Inspector."

Even as Jack was trying to compute the idea of a knife-wielding murder scurrying around the train, despatching victims at a full sprint, there was a shout from further down the train.

"SARGE!"

While the brains of the operation had been examining the bodies, the brawn that had arrived from City South had been employed in making sure that a) the occupants of the train (now all decently clothed once more, thanks to Miss Fisher's calm pragmatism and strong stomach in the face of rather more flesh than should be observed before gin o' clock) remained in their places, and b) the train itself was searched for any sign of a weapon.

Jack turned to the door and sprinted along the corridor to the source of the racket; a constable whose job it had been to search the third-class carriage. He was found to be standing at the near end of it, beside a closed door.

"What's this?" asked Jack tersely.

"The lav, sir," said the lad nervously. "It's locked. There must be somebody in there."

Hugh Collins had also answered his minion's call, and immediately objected to the evidence presented.

"That's not locked," he pointed out. Sure enough, the indicator was switched to a very clear VACANT signal.

"Well, I couldn't get in, Sarge," replied the aggrieved Constable.

Inspector and Sergeant exchanged glances.

"Shoulder to it, please, Sergeant."

The coach of the South Melbourne boxing team attacked the door with a will, and sure enough, it gave an inch under his determined shoulder.

"That's not locked," said Jack firmly. "There's something jammed behind it. Come on, lads, push it hard. All together."

They pushed. The door was persuaded to open a full three inches.

Jack, on the hinge-most end of the operation, had the best view; that therefore meant that he was the first to catch sight of a lifeless hand, resting in a deep pool of blood.

"Dear God," he whispered. "We've got another one."

He did a quick calculation. Assuming that all of these corpses were living humans when they boarded the train, they had been dispatched within the space of the ten minutes it took the train to cover the distance from Flinders Street to Toorak.

A murderer who could work that quickly, and who might still be on board the train?

While his subordinates were still goggling at the new evidence, Jack's instincts kicked in. Within seconds, there was a man at the end of every carriage, and one on the ground on each side of the train to watch for attempts to leave by the doors. Chalky White was sent scrambling to the roof, with instructions to yell if he saw anything not in uniform anywhere near the train.

After the application of meaningful muscle, the lavatory door was shoved open, despite its mortal burden. The Coroner was allowed to enter, and the body swiftly examined _in situ_ before being extracted to the corridor, and thence to the baggage car where the Coroner declared herself able to complete an initial examination.

"Modus operandi the same as the other two, Inspector," pronounced Mac. "Single knife wound to the abdomen, targeting the vascular organs."

"Vascular?" queried Jack absently, eyes on the corpse.

"Blood circulation. Lots of blood in all cases. All three of these men died quickly, which suggests to me that the person with the knife had a specific aim in mind. Incidentally, the blood's congealing – all of these murders took place at least half an hour ago, I'd say. Possibly a little more." Mac looked up at the Inspector with a twitch of sarcasm. "Shall I hang around for a few minutes to see if you find any more bodies, Jack, or are we up to looking for a murder weapon yet?"

He muttered something unrepeatable at his daughter's godmother and stalked away with as much dignity as he could muster to find Sergeant Collins, who was fortunately looking for him.

"Collins, have we now searched every inch of this train?"

"We have, sir."

"Do we have statements from all of the passengers?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are there any of them I need to question further at this stage."

"I don't think so, sir. We've got everyone's addresses, and the bus to take them to Armadale's arrived."

"Then I think we can let them go for now," he stated in relieved tones. Then a thought occurred to him. "Where's Miss Fisher?"

Collins was momentarily disconcerted. "Oh, she wanted Dottie to look at a coat, I think."

"A coat?"

"Yes, I'm pretty sure she said a coat. Or a jacket, maybe."

Jack's suspicions deepened.

"Where was this coat, Sergeant?"

"Oh, that's okay, sir – it's in the lavatory, but we've got the body out of there now …"

Jack allowed his glare to rest on Hugh Collins for three scorching seconds before he shoved the younger man out of the way.

"MISS FISHER!" he bellowed, as he jogged up the third class carriage. "VACATE MY CRIME SCENE THIS INSTANT!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Miss Fisher popped her head enquiringly out of the door of the third class lavatory and smiled cheerfully, because she knew precisely how cross the Inspector was, why, and that it was all her fault.

The fact the she knew he loved her and would forgive her anything helped enormously.

"Sorry, Inspector, was there something you wanted?"

By this time he had reached the door, and was practically nose to nose with her for his furious stage whisper.

"_You know perfectly well that that is a crime scene and if you find something you tell me about it, you do not start examining it and risk ruining my case!_"

"Hush, Jack dear," she admonished, "I was only doing what you yourself would have done, and called in a professional expert. In this case," she reached behind the door, before stepping carefully over the pool of blood to avoid making a mess of her shoes, "a dressmaker."

She transferred a scarlet coat from one hand to the other and pushed the door a little wider to allow a very shamefaced Dorothy Collins to take an equally careful hop across the blood patch.

"Miss Williams," said Phryne proudly, putting Dot on her professional pedestal, "has something important to tell you."

Dot looked up at Jack, blushed, looked down and muttered her Important Evidence to her hands, wringing together plaintively.

Jack took pity on her – it had never been Dot's fault that Miss Fisher had dragged her into the world of crime-fighting, and she certainly did her best to observe the rules that Phryne thought hysterically funny, quaint and easy to ignore. "I'm sorry, Miss Williams, I didn't quite catch that?" he asked gently.

The fact that he was focussed on Dot meant that the adoring look from Mrs Robinson went unobserved. But it was there, dear reader. It was very much there, as befits a man who saves up his impatience for the people who warrant it and does his best to render comfort to the blameless.

Enough of modern matters marital.

Dot was reminded that this was, after all, Just Jack (as he'd often tried to get her to call him) and her courage was bolstered. "It's far too good a jacket for a third class passenger, Inspector." Taking it from Phryne, she turned it inside out. "You see? Beautifully matched linings, in colour _and_ stitching. The tailoring at the waist isn't a standard for the big shops like Lawless'." She presented it to him with a firm nod.

"It may have been found in third class, but this is couture, or my name's not Dorothy Williams."

Both of the listening sleuths hid grins at the conviction of her claim to maiden status that Sergeant Collins might have been a little alarmed by, but were more interested in the message.

Even as they exchanged glances, though, a rotund matron appeared from the direction of the second class carriage, accompanied by a harassed constable. She was wearing a floral wraparound dress that had plainly been recently re-wrapped and was objecting the arduous task it had been given.

"Sorry, sir, I tried to tell her to stay put," the constable bleated.

"It's all right," the Inspector jerked his head. "Just get back to your post and try to keep the rest of them in one place."

"Oh, it's quite all right, Mr … er?" said the lady in fruity tones.

"Detective Chief Inspector Jack Robinson, ma'am," said Jack flatly. "I'd be grateful to know in what way you are currently assisting rather than inhibiting a murder investigation?"

"Well, we were just wondering when … er … whether … ah …"

When Jack chose to be charming, Phryne reflected, he could make a lady go weak at the knees, to which scientific pronouncement she could provide categorical proof. When, on the other hand, he chose not to be, he was astonishingly frigid. The matron, as though in support of the advancement of science, shivered accordingly. Casting her eyes around for saving inspiration, she caught sight of the jacket in Phryne's hands.

"How odd!" she remarked involuntarily.

Quick to catch on, Phryne followed up. "Odd in what way?"

"Well, it's such a smart jacket. Is the young lady still here? It would be strange to leave it behind if she'd got off somewhere."

Jack was instantly alert. It seemed unlikely that the murderer had left such an obvious clue hanging around, but …

"What young lady might that be, Miss …" swift glance at the left hand, "… us …?"

The matron bridled, happy to be restored to her accustomed position in the limelight. "Snodgrass. Amy Snodgrass. Widow," she added carefully, to Jack, who had taken out his notebook and started recording the conversation. "Two years now since my sainted Alfred departed this earth, and I miss him _Every Day_. Why, only last Saturday …"

"Yes, I am sorry to hear of your loss, Mrs Snodgrass," Jack interpolated hastily, "but you were telling us about the person who was wearing a jacket like this?"

Mrs Snodgrass missed completely the careful wording of his question and barrelled on cheerfully. "Oh, it was that jacket, Inspector, definitely. She was wearing it when she met the nice young man from our carriage. He was travelling in lipsticks," she announced confidently.

"Lipsticks? I see," said Jack, encouragingly, and refusing to meet Miss Fisher's eye, because he'd been told times without number that Luscious Rose didn't suit him.

"Yes, and he leaped to his feet as soon as he saw her," said Mrs Snodgrass. "_I_ think they'd arranged to meet, for all it was supposed to be a chance encounter. You know what young people are!" she giggled at this, and nudged Jack. "But they disappeared off together and we didn't see them again. Then the train stopped, and it got to the Agreed Hour, and we had to Return To Nature, and … well, there we are." She appeared a little forlorn at the end of her statement, as though recognising that she might soon lose her audience.

She need not have worried.

"Can you describe the young lady who was wearing the red jacket?" asked Jack.

Mrs Snodgrass bit her lip, and gave voice to a series of "oh"s, "um"s and "ah"s. None of these progressed the three homicide cases materially. It transpired that the young lady had been, well, quite young. No, not a schoolgirl. No, under thirty. Perhaps somewhere in between, although it's so hard to tell with young people, these days. Her hair? Oh definitely blonde. Or rather, fair. Definitely not brown. Perhaps slightly mousy. Quite tall, yes. Bur rather shorter than the gentleman.

On the verge of tearing his hair out, Jack took the very haphazard and reluctant witness to the baggage car, in the hope that she might identify one of his two problems.

Mrs Snodgrass took one look at the body which had been retrieved from the lavatory, said, "Oh, heavens" and promptly fainted.

The Inspector caught her, and dispatched a constable to tell the bus driver waiting to take passengers on to the next stop that he shouldn't hold his breath.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Mrs Snodgrass was deposited in an empty third-class carriage, and Dorothy agreed to keep an eye on her until she regained consciousness. In the meantime, the jacket was displayed to the rest of the passengers, with interesting results; although the second class passengers all recalled seeing it, those in third did not. Nor did they recall seeing a young woman of bearing any resemblance to Mrs Snodgrass' description.

"There was another girl," volunteered a skinny youth whose clothes looked as though they'd been handed down from a much larger sibling. "No coat, mind. Just a shawl, like, and a scarf on her head."

"Did she get off the train?" asked Jack.

"Dunno," the lad shrugged. "Only saw her for a minute – she came into the compartment at South Yarra, and said hello to the bloke opposite, and he got up and went off with her."

"Which way did they go?"

The boy thought for a moment. "Headed to the back of the train, I reckon."

This was enough for Jack. He asked the boy to come with him, and warned him quietly that he might be shocked by what he saw. Sure enough, the now grey-faced youth confirmed that the body that had been discovered in the baggage car was of the man who had been travelling in third class.

It then occurred to the Inspector that he hadn't laid eyes on Miss Fisher for all of, ooh, ten minutes. After a couple of seconds' reflection, he headed back to the first class carriage, which lacked any police presence, but certainly contained a dead body, whose pockets were currently being rifled by one P. Fisher.

He propped a shoulder against the door and watched her silently. Only when she withdrew a wallet from the inner pocket did he shove himself forward and lean over her shoulder to pluck it from her hand.

"My evidence, I believe, Miss Fisher?"

She turned round and had the grace to flush slightly; but her smile was only a trifle forced.

"Why, Jack, you startled me! I thought it was about time we tried to find out who these men were, even if we're singularly lacking a murder suspect."

"Singularly?" he quoted.

"Oh, certainly," she decreed. "Mac's already said the weapon and the MO were the same in all three cases, even if in at least two of the cases, she had a very different appearance. The only question in my mind is why the suspect left behind that jacket – it's very distinctive."

He agreed that it was, and had a flash of inspiration. "Miss Fisher, as I haven't the remotest hope of keeping you out of this, I wonder if I might prevail upon your particular expertise?"

At this she smiled properly, and sidled up to him, running her fingers up his lapels and glancing up at him under her lashes. "Why, Inspector, I thought you'd never ask," she said in her most seductive tones. "But isn't that sort of behaviour a little – er – risqué for a murder scene?"

He smirked, and gently removed her hands from his person.

"I was, of course, referring to your knowledge of and connections with the couture houses of Melbourne," he explained. She gave a little _moue_ of disappointment, but her eyes sparkled at the idea.

"You want me to track down the jacket to its source?"

"Do you think you can?"

"Oh, certainly. Dot and I will start at Madame Fleurie's and see if she has any suggestions. I don't think it's one of hers – none of her signature details are there – but she's bound to have an idea of the competition."

He tipped his hat to her so courteously that she felt she simply had to respond, and a layer of Luscious Rose had to be hastily removed from the Inspector's lips before they went to retrieve the evidence. The roar of the Hispano-Suiza as it departed for town was heard regretfully, but as Miss Fisher had promised to rendezvous at City South before the end of the day, the Inspector shook himself firmly by the conscience and started the task of removing the bodies to the morgue, the passengers to Armadale and himself and his men back to Toorak station.

As they walked back to the car, Collins plucked up courage to ask what they were looking for at Toorak.

"Any sightings of a young woman in a shawl and headscarf," said Jack briefly, "and a murder weapon. It's an outside chance, but there just might be something in the waste bins at the station."

As he spoke, he pulled open the rear door of the car. What he saw made him grin broadly, and bless Mrs Robinson from the bottom of his heart.

"What's that, sir?" asked Lennox, peering over his shoulder.

"That, Detective Constable, unless I am very much mistaken, is my lunch," said Jack firmly, lifting the cloth that covered the basket's contents. He gave a satisfied nod, and glanced up at his colleagues.

"Don't worry, lads – if you're very good and find me a murder weapon, I might share a bit of Mr Butler's gratin."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

No matter how great the attraction of Mr Butler's gratin, though, the collective might of City South was unable to discover a murder weapon anywhere on Toorak's pretty station. They even searched the environs – well-kept as they were, it was an easy matter to scan the area.

While they did so, Jack interviewed the station staff, and drew an equal blank. No-one had seen a woman in a shawl and headscarf descending from the train. Only three local residents had got off there, and none matched the description the Inspector offered.

Disconsolate, they returned to their vehicles, and the Inspector concluded that the only other avenue open to them was to start with the deceased. All had been carrying sufficient identification for addresses to be traced.

"So," Jack surveyed his troops and summarised. "We have three victims whose relatives we need to inform and question, and there are three of us. We can move most quickly if we each take one, and no arguments, gentlemen – whether you like it or not, you take a man with you and they will report to you." This in particular was a nod to Detective Constable Lennox, whose authority in City South was clearly defined by statute and still woefully shaky in practice. Point made, he turned back to Collins.

"Sergeant? Will you take Clelland, our first class corpse?"

Collins pursed his lips. "No sir, thanks all the same. I can ask the questions but if they come over all 'don't you know who I am' on me, I won't be able to handle it. I'll take the third class and I think I'll have a better chance than either of you of getting the answers we want."

Jack only nodded. Neither of the two men in front of him knew how his heart rejoiced to have a good man confidently affirm his worth – and more to the point, respectfully share his wisdom.

_Hugh, my friend, you are becoming wise_.

"Good point, Collins, thanks for that. Lennox, you've society contacts – where do you think you'll score us points?"

"Not with the society types, Inspector," Lennox admittedly straitly. "I may be related to a solid percentage of Melbourne's _crème de la crème_, but I'm willing to bet they'd take a dim view of a mere constable turning up to question them."

Jack groaned inwardly, but admitted he was right.

"Okay then – I'll go to Clelland's address and see what I can find. Collins, you take the Lawrence house, and that leaves you with Smythson, Lennox. Report back to City South when you finish."

His subordinates saluted, and three police cars went their separate ways.

When they reconvened, however, it was in an atmosphere of considerable solemnity. Lennox bore a box of paperwork and a grim expression, while Collins' pallor came close to that which he'd displayed only once – at his wife's confinement with their twins. Wordlessly, Jack ushered them to his office and closed the door. For once, Collins was given the guest chair, while Lennox put his burden on the desk and stood next to it.

"Blackmail, sir," he said briefly. "This is full of some very unpleasant documents, which appear to have been used to extract regular sums of money from a whole list of victims. A chap who's cheating on his wealthy wife; a woman who regularly pilfers food for her family from the grocer's where she works; more of the same." He lifted a notebook from the top of the pile. "Sometimes the sums are tiny, but they're regular, and they're all listed here." He dropped it back in the box.

"Collins?"

The sergeant had been staring into space and started when his name was mentioned. "Sorry, sir. But … I've seen some horrible things in my time … but …" he shook his head, then summoned his wits with a visible effort. "A drunk, sir. Lawrence was a drunk. One with a violent temper." He looked from one of his colleagues to the other. "The girl who opened the door to me couldn't have been more than ten years old. She had a black eye. Her mother tried to pass it off as a playground injury, but then her boy, a six year old, came trotting into the kitchen with his arm in a sling, she gave up."

He almost whispered the words. "He'd broken his own son's arm." Then, fiercely, "Sir, if we find this murderer, I want to give them a medal, not a noose."

"Afraid the law has a different view, Sergeant," said Jack – but gently, as he had his own story to tell. "Given that Clelland was operating a sweatshop to make cheap clothes, however, and exercising _droit du seigneur_ over the workers as a sideline, I have to say I sympathise with your perspective."

"The part I don't understand, though, sir," remarked Lennox meditatively, "is what these men had in common with our murderer? Why did this one woman decide to kill, very brutally, three men from very different walks of life? Even if she was one of the blackmail victims, could she also have been working in the sweatshop _and_ related to the drunk's family?"

"No …." Jack thought it through. "If she'd known them, they would have recognised her, and apparently two of them at least went with her willingly. No – I think she was a stranger to them."

"Some kind of avenging angel, by the sound of it," said Collins, regaining his composure steadily as his grasp on the case became firm once more.

The door was flung open as he uttered the words, and they were overheard by the new entrants.

"Not an angel, Hugh dear," announced Miss Fisher, flinging the red jacket down on the desk beside the box of blackmail documents. "Our murderer is, I believe, a saint."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

"You traced the jacket," Jack guessed.

"Oh, yes, that was easy," said Phryne dismissively. "Simone at Fleurie recognised the buttons, and sent us straight to the House of Henriette." She grinned. "I think it's the first time she's willingly sent me to a competitor."

"And Henriette has identified the owner?" asked Jack urgently.

"Yes – and no," sighed Phryne. "The client in question has never been for a fitting – "

"And I still don't know how they can do that, Miss," interjected Dorothy. "Measurements are all very well, but unless you see the gown on the lady, you can't possibly fit it."

"Nevertheless, this client has sent specifications and measurements. She has samples posted to her, and makes her selections entirely through the medium of the mail." She paused for effect. "Specifically, through a post office box."

"And?" Jack was at a loss. He didn't expect to understand the fashion parts, but the post office was a mystery of fairly limited proportions, and he mostly grasped how it worked. Why was Miss Fisher getting worked up about a delivery box?

"I looked at the box number, and thought it rang a bell – and I was right!" she announced triumphantly. Turning to Dot, she held out her hand, into which was placed a pristine copy of that morning's _Argus_.

"I will offer excellent odds, Chief Inspector, that your murderer is none other than St Jude."

The Chief Inspector took a minute to scan the column in question; and having done so, so far forgot himself as to place a smacking kiss on the lips of the Honourable Phryne Fisher, in full view of two members of his own staff and a not-entirely-disinterested civilian.

He then realised what he had done, and worked on the excellent premise that the event had been a figment of everyone's imagination.

"Lennox?"

"Sir."

"Get down to the Post Office and start watching that box. I want to know if anyone even looks at it in a slightly interested fashion."

"Yessir."

"Collins?"

"Sir."

"Lennox has the primary responsibility on this watch but he needs backup. I want a man detailed in the street outside the Post Office as long as he's there."

"Yessir."

The room was emptying rapidly, and Mrs Collins took the liberty of following the Sergeant out in order to remind him that Detective Constable Lennox would need comfort breaks. Sergeant Collins replied that he was very grateful for her input, Dottie, but he wasn't born yesterday. Then apologised profusely when Dottie took a sharp intake of breath.

"Inspector?"

"Yessir – Miss Fisher, I …"

She smirked, and strolled around the desk to hop up on her accustomed perch. "No need to call me Sir quite yet, Jack," she teased. "I know I'm good at this, but until His Majesty gives me that knighthood, I'm still going to have to make do with my meagre Honourable."

She crossed one leg over the other, and smiled winsomely. "I was about to ask how you're going to thank me for your major breakthrough in this multiple homicide."

He stood and leaned over her, fists planted on the desk at each side of her hips. "I'm going to pay you the huge compliment of Not Strangling you," he growled. "Will that do?"

Not one whit abashed, she gave him a peck on the cheek. Assuring him it would do very nicely, thank you, Inspector, she hopped back down and sashayed out of his office. He forgot to pretend to be angry.

The next hours were … tedious. Jack comforted himself that it would be a lot more tedious if he was Lennox, staking out a post office box. He had almost decided to give up and go home when there was a tap on his door.

"Sir – there's a man wanting to see you. Says he works at Toorak railway station and there's something he thinks you should know." Collins shrugged. "His story sounds daft to me, sir, but I didn't want to get in the way and all."

Jack sighed. So much of policing was about being available to the clueless in order to access the clues. "Show him in, Collins."

"It was about the questions you were asking, yer Honour."

That was a first. Jack had been called many things in his life, but magistrate wasn't on the list.

"Just Inspector will do, sir," he said gently. "My job's to inspect the information – it's up to the magistrate to decide what to do with it when I've passed it to him."

"Oh. Oh, right. Gotcha," the poor man was clearly tying himself in knots. "Anyway, you were asking about a lady in a shawl, so I didn't think about the other lady who was getting off the train this morning, like she always does."

Jack inclined a politely inquiring eyebrow and murmured encouragement. It was already feeling like a long day.

"It's silly, really, but Mrs Hollowfern got off that train. But she wasn't in a shawl or anything, so I didn't say anything."

"Mrs Hollowfern?"

"Yes, Inspector," the man was warming to his case now, sitting forward in his seat. "She's a widow, lives just up the road from the station. Very well set up, as I understand it. Her late husband was in tin. Did very nicely for himself. She was just a kid when they married, not surprising when she was widowed, when all's said and done. But I'll take my oath it was a love match and oh, my goodness, she missed him. Sat at home for over a year and you only ever saw her when she went to town to see her lawyers. Lost weight something dreadful. But then, a few months ago, she started going about again. Just a bit, but we were made up to see her come alive again. Her clothes hung off her a bit, but she wore that fur like she was the Queen."

"Fur?" asked Jack.

"Yer, the big fur coat she was wearing when she got off the train. Crazy big gold hat thing she had on, and her fur. Seemed a bit odd she'd forgotten her gloves."

"Her gloves?"

"When she gave up her ticket. She wasn't wearing any gloves. Always very well turned out, Mrs Hollowfern was, so that was an odd thing. Hands stuffed in her pockets, and straight back in when she'd gone through the barrier. Not like her." The man sighed, and shook his head. "Not like her at all."

Jack did his best to be casual. "I don't suppose you know where she lives?"

"Well, I don't know the number, but I could take you to the house," offered the man.

Ever the sporting type, Jack left a message that Miss Fisher might want to drop by City South in an hour or so, before he, Collins and the ticket collector piled into the car.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

"Mrs Hollowfern will see you now," smiled the maid.

It was a testament to the quality of their reception that she'd been allowed to make the announcement; Jack's instinct was generally to require admittance and not mind out-of-joint nasal cartilage.

However, they had been warmly greeted when they arrived; shown to a cosy sitting room and assured that their hostess would be with them in a few moments. They were offered tea, in such a way that they accepted it – then looked at one another in disbelief.

In quiet obedience, they followed the maid to a study at the rear of the house, where they were greeted by a woman whose courtesy, comportment and composure were flawless. She stood, and walked around the desk to hold out her hand to Jack.

"Detective Chief Inspector, it's a great pleasure to meet you. Please sit down."

Was it an oversight that there was no notion of surprise?

He caught a watchful note in her regard, and decided that no – she had expected him. But she was still not going to give him any free gifts.

"Thank you," he said briefly. "I was hoping you might be able to help me explain a series of incidents that took place this morning, on the train from Flinders Street. I believe you were on the 10.38?"

Immediately, there was a relaxation in her pose. "I was. How can I assist you?"

He thought for a moment, and took a gamble.

"I was wondering …" he gestured to Collins, who came forward with a nondescript bag, " … whether you might be able to identify this jacket for us?"

He drew out the jacket.

She drew in a breath, and met his eyes. There was, he thought, anger, but also something wistful.

_Any way but this – but if it must be this way, so be it_.

"Oh well, there's a lesson learned," sighed the murderer. "Never assume that a policeman won't recognise couture." She grinned at Jack. "I had hoped you could be a _little_ more stupid, Chief Inspector."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Mrs Hollowfern," replied Jack courteously. "Would you perhaps be able to come to the station?"

"Certainly," she said politely. "May I collect my handbag? If you would rather, my maid can fetch it. It's in the drawing room."

"We can go to the car that way if you would prefer."

Jack wondered when he'd stopped arresting a murderer and started attending a society party; but they duly trooped to the drawing room, retrieved the bag and proceeded in an orderly fashion to City South.

Somehow, Jack couldn't quite bring himself to use the cold quarters of the interview room, and instead led the way to his own office; Miss Fisher was discovered thoroughly at home with a copy of the latest police bulletin, and politely introduced to Mrs Hollowfern.

"Judith, please – or better still, Jude. It's what my late husband used to call me," requested the defendant. "I've followed your exploits for years, and it's lovely to meet you at last."

Phryne smiled, but looked quizzically at Jack, who was making a production out of arranging the papers on his desk to his satisfaction.

He ignored her, and focussed solely on Mrs Hollowfern. "So, I must now ask – what were you doing on the 10.38 from Flinders Street Station this morning?"

"Stripping and dressing, Inspector," said Judith cheerfully. The Inspector gulped, and looked, thought Phryne, adorably confused.

"I take it you don't mean you killed anyone by taking your clothes off," she suggested, with only the slightest hint of hysteria in her tone.

"No," grinned Jude. "I took my clothes off – and then put them on again – in order to kill them. I honestly think I would have got away with it too," she reflected. "It's a real blow to my ego that you managed to work out how I'd done it."

Phryne and Jack exchanged glances. After a moment, he spoke up. "I'll admit we've worked out who and why – but exactly how has been a bit of a mystery."

"Oh, _good_," cried Judith, and settled back more comfortably in her chair. "So I can talk you through the Three Faces of St Jude? Fabulous!" Then a thought occurred to her. "You're not allowed to blame anyone else, though. There isn't a single letter to that post office box that incited me to do what I did. They only described the problem and left it to me to solve it. I've never had to murder anyone – until now. I sent them the inviting messages, I sent them the tickets. Don't you dare think of implicating any of the people who've had to put up with these execrable excuses for humanity."

Jack blinked, but such was the force of her personality that he, too, settled back in his chair, mirroring her movements. Phryne watched, amused, but forbore to remark, instead shifting her attention back to the vibrant young woman across the table from them, who was enthusiastically describing her crime.

"You see, I had to be different people to the different marks. You see one woman in a red coat in the company of three gentlemen, all of whom end up dead? Well, that's a bit too obvious even for the thickest plod, isn't it?" She caught herself, and gave an abashed smile. "Sorry, Inspector. You know what I mean."

He gave her an abashed grin back, and agreed that he did, before again recalling that he was meant to be interviewing a confessed murderer.

"So, the first Judith was the fabulously wealthy _femme fatale_ with the luxurious fur coat, and the golden headpiece. I liked the headpiece detail in particular, by the way," she broke off, conversationally. "You perhaps don't know that St Jude is usually pictured with a flaming crown. I wanted to be eye-catching, but I thought that actual flames might be a step too far."

Both sleuths agreed that firearms were more usual at Flinders Street Station than flaming headgear.

"Then I dumped the coat and hat in the baggage car, on the pretext of checking on my luggage, and scurried off to retrieve the mark from second class. He was disgustingly eager to have his wicked way with me in the less-than-salubrious surroundings of the WC, and was on his way out of this mortal life when we'd barely left Flinders Street."

Jack nodded calmly, even as his brain shrieked at the thought of this woman committing a brutal murder. "Then you took off the jacket."

"The jacket and the gloves. Oh, you didn't find the gloves? I won a point, then!" She gave a little cheer. "Go back and have another look, Inspector. White nylon gloves, sadly rather bloodstained, slipped down the back of the mirror in the lav."

"Shawl and headscarf next, to entice the odious Lawrence from Third Class just after South Yarra." She paused, and said conversationally, "Do you know, Inspector, it's quite remarkable the places that a man will regard as suitable for a sexual encounter? I suggested the baggage car and practically had to run to keep up with him – even if the amount of alcohol in his system meant he was naturally staggering backwards along the train."

The Inspector did his best to look nonplussed at the idea of having a sexual encounter anywhere other than the marital bed, and failed miserably when he recalled a highly-polished table on a liner operated by the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company. The way Judith's eyes laughed at his suggested she might not know the table in question, but had a pretty good idea where his thoughts were wandering. Phryne's gaze went from one to the other and felt the oddest sensation of falling from the highest point of the Luna Park Scenic Railway in the pit of her stomach.

"The trouble was that he was so keen I couldn't immediately get at my knife, so we were slowing down for Toorak by the time I could get away," Judith continued. "Slung on the fur, fresh gloves and the hat and stalked as fast as my elegantly-shod little feet could carry me back to First – and that meant I had to leave my lovely jacket in the third class WC because there just wasn't time to retrieve it and put it on under my furs. My dressmaker will never forgive me. What next? Oh, not much really. Pretended to fall over on Clelland as I came into the cabin, knife in, out, and march elegantly out the other door as we stopped at Toorak."

She sat back, evidently pleased with herself. "All done and dusted in ten minutes. Pretty damn efficient, though I say is as shouldn't."

"But – why _you_?" asked Phryne curiously.

"Well, one must do _something_ in life, mustn't one?" remarked Judith blandly. "When you're rich as Croesus, most jobs are deadly dull. A woman can't spend her entire life shopping, parties pall and charity fundraising dinners are terrible for the waistline. And I hope that, after all, I've made a difference. In my own, small way," she asked with an air of honest inquiry.

"One could argue that you've made rather a big difference," replied Phryne carefully.

Judith chortled appreciatively. "Oh, I'm no saint, Miss Fisher! We've already agreed I'm a murderer, after all, which I seem to recall featuring on the list of Thou Shalt Nots. No, all I try to do is make up the ground where it seems the long and," she grinned at Jack, who could feel a blush rising no matter how hard he tried to fight it, "occasionally downright pulchritudinous arm of the law can't quite reach." She reached into her handbag, and Jack stretched an arm forward, but she swiftly produced a small, lacquered wooden box, holding it up for his examination. "Mint, Inspector?"

He shook his head, and settled back in his chair as she removed the lid, noting as his did the lurid decoration of a bright red spider. She shook the box, frowning, before looking up again. "Sorry, Miss Fisher, there's only one left, so I'm going to have to be rude and refuse to offer you any."

She picked out the sweet, smiled at it slightly, and glanced from one sleuth to the other. "And I'm afraid, you see, I do – always – please myself first. Hanging's such an _undignified_ death, isn't it?"

Jack started to his feet, but she had already popped the 'sweet' in her mouth and crunched it, swallowing rapidly. Then looked down, grasping both arms of the chair with hands whose knuckles showed white; her whole body spasmed for a few moments, and then slid bonelessly to the floor.

Jack's face went by turns from startled, to alarmed, to panicked, to … desolate?

Phryne wasn't sure what the words were, but she watched the play of reactions and grew steadily colder. When he crouched by the body to check for a pulse, she shivered involuntarily.


	10. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Mr Butler had removed the pudding bowls, but both sleuths remained, apparently transfixed, at the dining table. The candles in the candelabra burned steadily, oblivious to the tensions surrounding them.

In an unusually low voice that Phryne asked the question that had been nagging at her for some hours.

"You liked her Jack, didn't you? Quite a lot."

He turned his gaze to his wife and, as steadily as the candle flame burned, replied.

"Yes. I did."

Phryne had taken many slings and arrows in life, and this one stung. The burning pain was a feeling she'd hoped never to feel again – hadn't imagined she would feel at all in the company of this, of all men – and all of a sudden she longed for the scorch of a coarse brandy. Perhaps several. She almost didn't hear his next words.

"It was wonderful, and terrifying, to find someone so like – and so opposite to – you."

Her brain screamed _Opposite? What do you mean opposite? She was a blonde, but apart from that?_

Her mouth formed the word "Oh?" Her vocal chords couldn't quite come up with the goods but, watching her, he got the message.

He stood, extended a hand and when she took it, tucked hers into his elbow to make their bodies fit that little bit closer as they retired to the parlour.

Without needing to ask, he took two glasses and selected a bottle from the tray, pouring a short measure into each. When he turned and extended one to her, she took it without thinking, and took her usual seat.

Then she looked at the glass, and blinked.

He'd poured them both a shot of neat vodka.

He sat opposite her, and waited for the moment to pass. It was finely judged, and when he thought she'd absorbed the message raised his glass.

"A toast. To Judith Hollowfern. An extraordinary woman, who sacrificed everything for those less fortunate than herself."

The drink provided the requisite burn, and she replaced the glass on the table before her, feeling a little better. If she couldn't have his heartfelt fidelity, at least she'd value honesty.

He replaced his too, and then rose to his feet to walk over and stand before her. Then he sank to his knees, and took her hands in his.

"I hoped you'd never doubt my fidelity to you, Phryne – even in my mind – and I'm apologising because I can tell you've had cause to, this time."

"Jack, don't be silly, I'd never …" she started in brittle tones; but he hushed her by drawing his palm down her cheek until his thumb touched her lips.

"Of course you did. I could try telling you again and again until I'm blue in the face that you're wrong, but you're too smart for that, so I can only hope to show you, and help you understand you will _always_ be able to trust me."

He took each of her hands in each of his once more, and squeezed a finger on each in turn.

"She cared for the weakest in society – and so do you." Thumbs.

"She had verve, and flair, that drew people to her – and so do you." Index fingers.

"She set her own rules, and devil take the man who wouldn't observe them." He squeezed both of her middle fingers at once at this, and she snapped her eyes up to look at him with a hint of laughter.

"She'd only ever enter a contract she controlled." A pause. He squeezed the ring fingers; first the unadorned one on her right hand, then the left which held both her plain wedding band and the 'Dearest' ring he'd given her on their marriage. A contract, yes; but one in which they were equal partners.

He moved his grasp to her little fingers, and paused again, struggling to construct the sentence; when she saw him swallow again, she relented and helped him out.

"And she didn't love Jack Robinson."

He looked up to meet her gaze.

"I'm the luckiest Chief Inspector in Christendom, Phryne – there isn't a day passes that I don't catch my breath in wonder at my good fortune. Judith Hollowfern was an astonishing woman, and I genuinely mourn her passing, but she was only a poor reflection of you."

She regarded him solemnly for a moment, then returned to the drinks tray and poured two more vodkas. Handing him his, she raised her own.

"To us, Jack."

"To us," he echoed, and swallowed the shot.

In unison, they put down the glasses, joined hands, and headed for the stairs and the boudoir. She made him laugh. He made her wince, then gasp. She stole his breath. He stole her mind.

In the morning, there was rich, dark coffee.


End file.
